This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2021 by Lisa Unger
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Amazon Original Stories, Seattle
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eISBN: 9781542027304
Cover design by Anna Laytham
1.
The next day, fifteen-year-old Matthew had all but forgotten about Mason, the trip to Havenwood, and the Dark Man. He was too young to acknowledge at the time that he had a gift for that, for burying dark and unpleasant things so deep that they disappeared from his consciousness. He was too young to know what a bad thing that was, even though it seemed like a good thing.
Claire maybe seemed a little off, but she had since the whole hide-and-seek thing. And she was a girl. As far as Matthew was concerned, there was no more mysterious creature in the universe.
Anyway, no one had brought up Mason, the creepy building out in the woods, the things Mason had said the night before. It hadn’t come up that whole lazy next day at the lake, during the muggy walk to the general store for ice cream, in the woods behind the house up to the edge of the old walled garden. Claire loved the walled garden, to wander among the overgrown plants, the gone-wild rose bushes, the towering grasses, the tangles of ivy. Matthew always walked out of there sneezing, or brushed up against some poison ivy and itched all night. If anyone had been thinking about the strangeness of what had happened, of Mason and his craziness, no one said a word.
It wasn’t until they’d returned to Merle House from the day’s adventures and seen the police car sitting in front that yesterday came back in a rush to Matthew. The red-and-white lights on the roof spun slowly, silently, casting an eerie kaleidoscope on the trees, the walls, glinting off the tall windows.
“Oh shit,” said Ian softly.
A tall, thick man who was not wearing a uniform, but instead a dark suit, stood on the porch with Matthew’s grandfather. Next to the tall man with the heavy brow, Matthew’s grandfather looked bent and small. His hair a wild gray mane, where the other man’s was close shorn, salt and pepper. The besuited man was obviously a cop, an aura of authority radiating from him.
Old Man Merle lifted a hand to them as they approached, waved them over. Matthew had just been about to lead the others around the side, headed toward the back entrance that led directly into the kitchen, where he ate most of his meals. Instead, they all came to stand in front of the tall front entryway.
“I’m afraid there’s been an incident,” Grandpa Merle said to Matthew. The old man seemed a bit put out, annoyed. Matthew had never seen his grandfather at the door. He was in his study, or seated at the head of the dining room table, or wandering the grounds. But never at the front door, which was always answered by the eternal housekeeper, Penny, if anyone other than Matthew’s friends ever came to Merle House—which was never.
Matthew could feel Claire crowding in close, hiding behind him and Ian.
“Officer Braun has some questions,” Matthew’s grandfather went on. Matthew knew that tone, a kind of superior patience.
“Detective Braun,” the other man corrected.
Old Man Merle looked at the cop with a frown, certainly not used to and not interested in being corrected. “Yes, well, let’s do this inside, shall we?”
Penny, who was standing nervously inside the door, ushered them all into the kitchen. In spite of the many grand rooms at Merle House, Matthew spent most of his time with Penny in the kitchen, or in his father’s old bedroom, Matthew’s bedroom now, or when his friends weren’t around, lying in front of the fire in his grandpa’s study while the old man read, or they talked languidly about all sorts of things—girls, politics, history, algebra, turning over rocks to find frogs, the best climbing tree on the property. Matthew loved his grandfather, then. He’ll love you, and you’ll adore him until you become a man with ideas of your own, Matthew’s father had warned. As a kid, Matthew had had no idea what that meant. But he’d figured it out soon enough, and it turned out to be true of his grandfather—and his father too.
“Kids,” said Detective Braun when they were all seated at the long, heavy kitchen table that stood along a row of windows. Outside it had grown dark. “Your friend Mason Brandt? Unfortunately, his father passed away.”
Claire released a little gasp, and Ian blanched a bit. Matthew could still hear Mason’s strident, angry voice echoing off the stone walls of that creepy basement:
I want my father to die. He beats me, and my mom. He’s a drunk and a monster. And I wish he was dead.
“H-h-how?” Matthew managed. His palms were sweaty, so he put them under the table.
“He was doing some repairs on the roof, apparently, and took a fall.”
Everyone knew that Mason’s father was an alcoholic, always out of work. Matthew, the few times he’d been to Mason’s, had never seen his father not lying in front of the television in the darkened living room. It was hard to imagine him making repairs of any kind. The house was a wreck.
Claire had started to cry a little, and Penny brought her a tissue, stood behind her with a protective hand on her shoulder.
“A tragedy to be sure,” said Matthew’s grandfather, with obvious indifference. “But what does
